A Race For The Sunset

Context: In January, I and my best friend in the world decided to take an uncertain trip to a place far away from home. We chose the Maldives because it was the only seemingly magical location where we didn't need a visa. We had previously tried to travel to Europe but visa issues and limited time so we quickly made a choice. We could not have made a better decision. This was one of the many magical experiences I had and I tried to recapture the moment in the language in which I felt it. 

We had taken an evening trip to Guraidhoo, which is one of the many magical islands of the Maldives.

I have gone back in my head several times to this moment. To the profound euphoria and ecstasy that I felt. If only words could do a moment justice. I try. 

Enjoy.

Guraidhoo bid us adieu when we made the niyya to search for the sunset. She hoped to see us again and if not in this life, she asked for a visit from another. My bowed head buried this promise in my heart. In the middle of God’s Indian ocean, we believed the sunset would welcome us home. The water set its pace and we set our sail, on our mark as we began the speed boat journey, to the middle of the world, where the sky meets the sea. We picked up speed and Guraidhoo became smaller and smaller until the mighty wind joined us on our race. We had 20 minutes to catch the artistic wonder of the sunset. Our driver and his sidekick braced their feet against the floor of the boat looking ready to take on the world. The captains of the sunny waters. Silky hair and kinky curls flew with the gust of the ocean breeze while we made our journey to the sun. There was nothing but God in the sky. The clouds were boastful as they took their form and became massive structures above our heads. I could hear them daring man to attempt to construct as beautifully as they can. They laugh at the weight of our brick walls and glass towers. While we sink, they rise high above the ground, weightless and exhilarated, boastful, and proud. What wonder, I was captivated. 

Our drivers still, defying the wind raced through the sea. They were a young and intimidating army of two, ready for conquest, with no shield or armor. This was no ordinary battle. Which of our wars has been against the mother universe? Who would win in a war that has already been won, humanity seemed so insignificant and small in the vast ocean as we chased the sun. My aching arms clutched the railing of the boat for dear life as the wind carried it’s ocean and asked us to make our peace with it. The pain was meaningless, the wind was stronger and I knew it. I closed my eyes and imagined the depth of the ocean, not even nothingness could scare me while in front of me, our war raged against the fierce current of the water and was being won by young island boys who have grown up fighting this fight. There was no CGI theatrics I still couldn’t believe my eyes. The wind took up its challenge up a notch and I held on for my life. My companions asked if I am okay. There were no words left on my tongue to answer their question. So I smile, comforting myself with the gift of sunnah as the limitations of my language suddenly dawned on me. I received the punishment for this curse of the English language, I accepted the saltwater as it slashed my face and dried my tongue. Aristotle could not have possibly documented in any language, this work of God that is the sky, the sea, the majestic drivers, and the looming sunset. So I forgive myself quickly for my linguistic shortcoming.  I send out a promise of a poem, a verse, or an ode. Immortalising the moment seemed like a life or death ordeal. As we begin to sight the boat on to whose deck we have received parley to view the sunset, I marvel at an irony. The menacing high walls of the Maafushi prison complex stood angrily and bitterly on reclaimed land. To deny one the beauty of the Southeast Asian sunset must be the cruelest punishment of all. How did we all fall for the lie of a system that kept people in cages? The walls stood tall, reaching for the sky, towering over every other building that has been sunk into the sand to keep a person in darkness. An unholy embrace. I could see no rehabilitation, only a sin. I close my eyes and give gratitude for my freedom. I am reminded of how quickly humans can become cruel and so this beauty must be praised. I prayed to the mother to exonerate us of the wickedness of the heart. Time was ticking but God was calling. 

We reached the Princess and alighted onto its wooden floor. Wound our way up to its belly and onto its deck. The sun had set. We had reached the end of our journey. God of the universe, whichever soothes your heart was reaching for me, calling my name. The pink sunset reflected the pink of my shirt and the pink twinkling Christmas lights that snaked around the neck of the deck. It was the most beautiful burst of color. The sun was large and soothing above our faces. The clouds, wanting to keep this beauty to themselves did their best to hide the descending sunlight. Is this a sign? I cry my eyes out at this magnificence. My tears seemed so small against the vastness of the sea and the ravishing sunset. I could feel it all, the love, the disappearing sun, the darkening water, the relentless wind. I answered the call and the muezzin sang through the heavens almost to say, Shaheedah, calm yourself. Believe in a God of wonders.

Allahu Akbar he bellowed but of course, this is greatness. Sunset at Maghrib is as inseparable as life and death. I answered the call for I have borne witness to the greatness and wonder of the God of wonders. Hayya alal Salah! Hayya alal Falah and with hurry, I wiped my tears and received salvation. The darkness had taken over the sky as the sun went on to have its rest.

Arabic words used: 

niyya - Intention

Allahu Akbar - God is great

Sunnah - Habitual Practice (also defined as the body of literature which discusses and prescribes the traditional customs and practices of the Islamic community, both social and legal.)

Hayyah alal salah - Rush to pray

Hayyah alal falah - Rush to success

The Thing Around Your Neck

They say sorrow looks good on me,
Her silvery pearls accentuating my neck,
They say she dangles sweetly from my lobes,
Like diamonds found deep within African soils.

I am acquainted with sadness,
Like long lost lovers.
She and i fit perfectly like pieces of a puzzle.

She nests her heavy head on my ample chest,
And i generously pat her icy back,
Singing her songs of a once upon a time.

They say sorrow looks beautiful on me
The way her selfish fingers clutch my throat.



Note: Title is adopted from Chimamanda Adichie's novel titled, The Thing Around Your Neck

A June Poem

This is the poem of a night in June
When the song that sung
Was a saddened ode
A prayer on the tongue
For a fire that burned
From darkness to daylight
Under the watchful eyes of God.

Love is a wicked friend
Who grips a heart
With hands made of roses and thorns.
"Mourn your loss"
The old friend begs
Only the lover understands
The pain that is felt.

You with the vizer over your eyes
Refuse to see them
The sons and daughters
Lovers and friends
All with the smell
Of death on their feet.

Do you not see how a night in June
Has stormed their worlds
A thief in the night
Now gone with the wind.
Let us leave this darkness
And find the light
Maybe, one morning in July.

You Must Have Heard

I am sure by now you must have heard

That your mother washes her hair with salt

To rid herself of your fathers stench

She sleeps on one side

Because her ribs have been cracked.

Your mothers legs have been bent

From birthing too much,

          they said.

You must have heard

That she forked herself

To rid her last child of your fathers
           name.

I am sure by now you must have heard

Your mother screaming at night

When he comes home and he hogs her breath

          Don’t you know?

She wishes you had her surname.

For Those Women

This one is for those women
those who bend their backs for men
who come home at night
smelling like darkness and the forest
breathing like hunting wolves
this is for those women
who at 18 years old
we call them antys
because they have walked through the clouds
their hair turned grey from
dancing with the cold
for those women who close their eyes
knowing that even in dreams
they are the women that women
like you and me
look through
do not see
do not greet
for those women who became women at 12
who look out for brothers
brothers that were sat and told
"you are the man of the house"
yet these women never become
women of the house
never receive glory or pensions
expected to not whimper when the world
becomes a little too heavy
slouching their posture
for those women whose bellies are stretched
from carrying us
too many times yet
we are not acquainted with their intestines
do not say Thank You
do not say Forgive me
do not say I see you
this is for those women whose eyes
are black holes
swallowing up pain like
it was not matter
carrying their sorrow in their skin
like cells
for those women whose mouths are graveyards
of buried words
haunted memories
i pray
i pray i do not carry a woman
in my body when i am woman
enough
there aren't enough bones to break
in my body enough to hold a woman in
enough to hold the wrath passed from my blood
to my blood
this is for those women who give birth to daughters
that become women before they can walk
who break their hearts praying still
for daughters, they know
they know only a woman
can hold a woman.

The Insolence Of Hope

I was born in the 90s, not the most monumental time in history, the world was still healing from the war, still healing from the war. i was born two years before Rwandans turned against each other, blood against blood, black on black killing, bodies piled to the sky, the angels did not know what to do with all that grief. The 90s were a subtle time still, the world, looked forward to a new millenia, cupping hope in two hands, forgiving history for it's callous reminders of our shortcomings.

My sister was born in 2000, a new millennia, the naivety of hope. A year later, all that hope came tumbling from the sky. Hades opened his wide mouth to catch the remnants of the hope that lingered amidst the the smoke. Two builidngs shook the world and the skies opened up to cry blood. New york city residents picked out their dead and immortalised them in their hearts. That same moment
a naive child in Iraq was having the audacity to hope for a future in this brave new world, until fighter jets started dropping packages of carnage and broken dreams.

Our insolence to hope for a millennia filled with time travelers and Marty Mcfly shoes, have promised children like my little sister, a yet still possible lifetime of serenity, hanging in the air,
an unfulfilled promise.

We Women

We African women tie loss around our waists, colorful beads around long strings. when we dance, we dance with our pain and our pride, melodies only we can hear, we dance. we dance.

We Black women, simmering in the hue of molten chocolate, carry thighs that rub against thighs and arms that embrace, the bulk of the world. grabbing onto our children, teaching them two times perfection.

We African women, who do not cry for the children to see, who walk out at 3am, sit and make pap, mixed with tears and love.

We Black women, who do not say words like "I love you", instead, we prepare three of your best meals before you come home and serve cold zobo.

We African women, who are each others saviors, whose backs are bent from carrying the world, we hold the universe against wide bosoms, pat the people to sleep while we stay awake, and fix everyone's blankets.

We Black women, whom are everyone's fetish, everyone's one time sexual adventure, those women who love themselves painful and joyously, who do not let the world, see them break.

Memories

Some people become memories
Like fleeting images
Birds in the sky
Some people become statues
Un-moving sculptures
Constantly staring

Some people become rain
Cleansing us
Washing away our sins
Some people become thunder
Terrifyingly glorious
Almost beautiful
Some people become fire
They set us ablaze
And leave us begging
For lighter fluid.

Immigrant Diaries (4): Allah In English

Last month your family walked
to europe
last month
the bombs went off in Paris.

now you pray in english
you don't say "subhanallah" when you trip
Mary sneezes in class
you quickly bite your tongue
so you don't say "yarhamakillah"
your father shaves his face
calls himself Mark instead of Musa
your sister packs you a p and j sandwich
it tastes like puke
in the cafeteria you lick your lips

your mother only shops in supermarkets
she refuses to go to the local bazaar
your uncles spread their sajjadah
in the garage
the athan calls
but you refuse to hear it
now you only read books by
Danielle Steele and JK Rowling
you hide your
Kahlil Gibran and Suheir Hammad
under your bed

your teacher says
A minute silence for the dead
and after exclaims
"curse those arabs"
you find some lightening cream in the store
(this accursed brown)
you think
you rub it at night everyday
but the sun has made a promise
on your skin
she simply will not
let up.

Immigrant Diaries (1): At Sea

Salt water up to your chest
your mother
cries a house
cries dry land
cries a family
cries love.

Salt water up to your throat
your mother
cries peace
cries a home
cries a god
cries survival

Salt water up to your chin
your mother
cries anger
cries rage
cries war
cries revenge

Salt water up to your eyes
your mother
cries forgiveness
cries a country
cries defeat
cries surrender

...Your Father

Your father pushes his cart
every night to the street opposite 5
stands by the corner and stirs white rice
he says he makes the best chickpeas
and with shredded chicken
it is the best
your fathers teeth is blackened with tea
you tease him about it
he says it is wisdom
your mother says it is poverty
rich peoples teeth don't blacken with tea

Your father pushes his cart every night
sells rice by the corner
he comes home smelling like spices
and to you
it is the best fragrance in the world

Your father died 5 years ago
you boil the rice just right,
simmer the chickpeas and
shredded chicken the right way
you tell your kids it is the best
some nights,
you sprinkle spices in his room
and lie in his bed,
it still smells like perfection to you.

You now drive a nice car
and have a house
you tell your kids to drink their tea with milk
you remember,
poverty blackens the teeth.

Whispers At Night

Image Source

At night you have dreams
of kneeling in prayer
to a God whom
you
have closed your heart to
like old friends
whom occasionally
remember
what was,
your lips whisper
holy names
you
don't open your eyes
but
behind your eyelids
there is an image
of a holy place
a holy heart
you don't say her name
but she
is on your
tongue.

Book Review: Corridors Of My Mind

This is for my Poetry lovers.

It is a scary thing to feel a writers emotions so deeply. Reading Corridors Of My mind was a roller coaster of emotions for me. It is an elegant collection of passionate love,pain, joy, calm, healing.It is almost a progression from pain to relief. I am glad i read this book. This breathtaking collection will have you clenching your fist against your heart out of raw emotions. Beautifully written. There is a poem for everyone, whatever you are going through, Angel has expressed it for you. I guarantee there is relief in her words. A stunning read. One of my favourites are Chapter 57: The Apocalypse, Chapter 115: He Calls.

Have a good read
Sayonara
xoxo

Skin

Two lovers
Hungry for touch
Desperate for that
Skin on skin intimacy
The merging of wet lips
They traced the lines
On each others body
Like unclaimed territories
Deciphering the map
That led to passion.
See, two lovers
Numbed by the pain
Craved for that
Skin on skin connection
Each one blinded
By pleasure points
Tracing kisses
In a cold winter night.

Two lovers
Tongues heavy with words
Untold stories
Held on to hearts
That beat against skin.

Resistance

The song of resistance rose from the throats of men
Whose hands are breaking the chains
Of suppression of rights
The sound of the wisdom of the old
And the roar of the energy of the young
Filled the sky
Rising and falling
To the beat of the hearts of men
Anchored like chains hands locked in
Men marched across the bridge of oppression
Stomping feet to break free of bonds of segregation
The song of resistance has being song
The rib of oppression has been broken
Men have walked the road to liberation
There is no barricade
On the road to freedom.

The Song Of The Birds

You with your calloused feet
You walk around here like you run shit
Haven't you heard
That the crown of men has been broken
That the birds have taken flight
And sung the songs of freedom
You with your calloused feet
You raise your chest high
Competing with the skies
Did you not see
The height of the birds
How they glide
Above man day and night
With pompous wings
And angry talons
Oh men, they sing
We have risen
From the dust of your land
To be crowned the kings of your skies
Men with calloused feet
Go home tonight
To your weeping younglings
The days of kings are over today
The evening has brought with it
The winds of the seas
Sweeping across your vast ground
And we have crowned them
Rulers of your land
The trees have spoken
And asked for liberation
Their roots have been unplugged
The earth bidding them adieu
Tonight we trample
Your words of oppression
With songs of freedom
Oh you men, with your calloused feet
Its redemption day.

The Freedom Of Love

You would think love is such an obvious thing, to share your soul and body with a partner, to have real conversations, talk about fears and hopes. Love is not as complicated as we make it, it should come freely, like a flowing river, love does not require practice or skill, love boils from the depths of your soul and radiates through every pore on your skin, love does not suffocate. Love does not exhaust, love lets you breath, makes the air around you lighter, calmer, warmer. Love does not lie or cheat. Love is effortless. Love is cold morning breeze and gentle 3am silence, love is not compromises and flowers, love does not require chocolates and gifts to thrive, love blooms in empty deserts, in every heart. Love takes you places where rockets and submarines cannot go. Love frees you, love frees you, love FREEs you.

The Love That Keeps On Taking

Even with my beating heart
Held bloody and hot
In his greedy hand
He still wanted more of me
Even with my last breath
Still warm against his face
He still needed me to give more

After i have
Stripped my self naked and bare
Peeled the skin back
From my skull to my feet
Folded it neatly
With fumbling bleeding skeletal fingers
And handed it over
He still wanted more

Needed more
I have given away
Every bit and piece of myself
Yet Still he demanded more.

Mourning In My Language

I want to ask you how your heart is
How your soul is coping with your loss
I want to tell you that by God she is at peace
But you are wailing and heaving
And all these words i can think of
Only in my language
My tongue is drowning
With the weight of all the words
That i cannot say in this your language
This restrictive language
Your language that has only one word for love
I want to ask you "Ya hakuri"
But in your English
It says "How is sorry"
Your language has me lost
Trying to grasp at emptiness
To make sense of my thoughts
My heart is breaking for you
Your tears, the words you cannot say
Streaming down your face
The sound of your sob
The only language
In your throat
So i sit beside you
Pat you on the back
And say instead
"There there now"

One Type Of Sad

She looks at me, like i am the saddest story she has ever heard
She asks me, to explain to her, why i am sad
That is the thing with my type of sad
it does not need a reason to anchor me
to the edges of my bed like a ship
at bay ready to be disembarked
my type of sad is the guest that comes to your house
unannounced, it does not call my phone
to ask if i am free, or busy
my type of sad is a marching band
stomping loudly in my head
blowing trumpets and beating drums
only i can hear.
She tells me to turn down the volume
but you see, my type of sad is not the ocean sad
the kind sad, my sad is loud and mean
the volume from my bizarre music drowns out
the concert in my head.
She says pretend for my sake to be happy
and i try, i swear i do
but my type of sad does not know
how to pull the strings at the side of my face
to curve into a smile, i am sorry,
it is your birthday and i promised i would come
i wanted to come, i knew i should have come
but my feet felt heavy and my chest felt too wide
to carry my heart, there are empty spaces
between my ribs and i can hear
the splurging of air within my bones, i am sorry,
i know i should not be sorry but i am
i want to be happy
for your sake i want to wake up
and paint my lips blood red but i am tired
my fingers are tired my eyes are tired
i am pretending not to be sad but within your crowd
i am lost, alone
she says i would not be so lonely
if i went out more and called up my mother more
but my mothers lonely lost voice
are fingers chocking my throat
i cannot breath and i love her
but my type of sad absorbs my mothers sad
and i cannot hear her.
The city feels so big and i am a little dead star
trying to shine in a room filled with bright lights
see i want to go to the party
but the bustle of life and energy reminds me
of the emptiness i feel inside
and my bed feels like the only party that would have me
i am sorry,
she says don't be sorry, be better
and i want to be
but i cannot be better when i do not know
how to be better.